


When We're Together

by SittingOnACornflake



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Cute, Friendship, Gen, George Harrison Is a Good Friend, Hamburg Era, M/M, Paul's a bit of an arse sometimes, Paul's trying to write a letter, Period-Typical Homophobia, Platonic Cuddling, based off that thing George said to Paul once, but in the end they're both so cute, but you can read it as a pre-relationship, he doesn't realise it's because he misses home, i love reading tags but I never have ideas for my own, it's just that Paul is afraid people will think he's queer, the "you smell like home" thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23374000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingOnACornflake/pseuds/SittingOnACornflake
Summary: Hamburg, 1960.Paul and George miss home.Or: the one in which George tells Paul he smells like home.
Relationships: George Harrison & Paul McCartney
Comments: 20
Kudos: 40





	When We're Together

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if this has been done before, but I loved writing it and I hope you'll like it too :)

_Dear Da and Mike,  
I’m well. I’m…_

Paul crossed out the words once again. He threw the pen and the crumpled sheet of paper beside him on the bed and rubbed his eyes before opening them again, slowly taking in the crappy room that was his home now.

_Home._ As if.

It was just a dark, dirty room in the back of a cinema in Hamburg. It wasn’t even his room, as his eyes reminded him when they fell on a discarded pair of briefs that definitely wasn’t his. He shared that old storage room that had no window with his four mates, so. There really wasn’t anything about his surroundings that could be talked about in his letter.

His father wouldn’t understand.

But Paul was happy to be here. He was happy to play, even though it made him wearier than he ever thought was possible. He was happy to be stuck in that crappy room because at least the dirty clothes and the smell of sweat (and other things) meant he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t spend much time in there anyway. He only came there to sleep … except for that night. But he hadn’t meant to spend hours on it. He wanted to write to his father and to his brother. No big deal. Not at all. He just hadn’t expected to get stuck on a stupid letter when he was able to make songs appear out of nowhere. How come he wasn’t able to get past that dreadful Dear Da and Mike now?

He huffed and tried to concentrate. What could he tell them? What was safe and worth telling at the same time? What could he write that would both be true and would not result in his father hurrying to Hamburg to drag him back home at once?

He couldn’t tell them about the room, for sure.  
He couldn’t tell them about the birds.  
He couldn’t tell them about the Prellies.  
He couldn’t tell them …

His thoughts began to wander again as he sucked on his pen absentmindedly.

John, Pete and Stuart were out, probably having a good time. Paul had been silly to stay behind. Stuart had gone off to Astrid’s, as he did more and more these days. John and Pete were probably shagging some birds – separately, mind you. George was the only one here. He had been in a mood the whole day. Truth be told, he hadn’t complained or anything. He’d just been even more quiet than his usual self, and had displayed a grim face even when they had gone to the pub.

It was their day off, and they scarcely got any. Who would choose not to have fun and sulk in a corner on his day off?

Yet, it could look like Paul was sulking too. But no – he wanted to write a letter. The words just weren’t coming.

“Paul,” a voice interrupted him.

He lifted his head. George was peering at him from the top bunk of the twin beds that were on the other side of the room. Well, it wasn’t as far as the words let on. As it was, there barely was a meter between him and George.

“I thought you were asleep,” Paul said.

George shrugged and ran a hand through his tousled hair.

“I can’t.” He squinted at him in the dim light. “You writing a song?”

“A letter. I wanted to write home, but it seems I can’t get it done,” Paul said, feeling frustration building in his stomach. _A whole evening. Wasted. Would he even be able to sleep?_

He let his eyes rake the room once again.

“Think I’ll just have to send them a postcard. One can’t say anything on these anyway, so they won’t be disappointed. But I wanted …”

He stopped. What did he want? Why did he need so much to write to them, right now? He usually had so many things to think about that a fortnight could roll on before he remembered that he needed to answer their latest letter. What was this urge that had suddenly taken over everything else?

“I was thinking about home, too,” George said. Then, as Paul didn’t react, he sat up straighter against the wall and added: “I miss home, too.”

“I don’t …” Paul began, but, even in the half-light of the room, he could sense George was raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, alright. I miss them. What do you suggest now?”

His tone was almost aggressive, but George didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he shifted a little to be nearer to the wall and pat the mattress next to him.

“Come up here with me?” he said in the same way he’d have asked Paul for tea or any other thing that was oh-so-normal.

Paul’s eyes widened but he chose to laugh it off.

“Georgie, I know you just had your first experience with a bird, but don’t expect me to help you have your first with a man,” he sniggered.

George ignored him.

“Just come here.”

“That’d be queer.”

“John won’t see us. He won’t make fun of you. Come on,” George retorted, patting the bed again.

Paul sighed but finally got up. George knew him too well.

“You’re a child,” he said nonetheless, trying to sound grumpy just to let George know he wasn’t happy to comply.

“Yeah, yeah. You tell me that enough, don’t worry. And if John or Pete step in, which they won’t, you’ll just have to tell them I had a nightmare.”

Paul said nothing, only taking a mental note of the excuse before climbing in the top bunk using only one hand – the other still clutching his draft and pen.

Trouble arose as soon as he sat down next to George.

“Stop kicking me!” said his friend after receiving his third kick in the leg.

“Then scoot over because I’m gonna fall off the bed,” Paul spat, eyeing the void on his right.

George squirmed a little more and they finally stopped moving. They sat there, against the concrete wall, their flanks pressed against one another, eyes fixed on their knees as their hands fidgeted, Paul’s with the piece of paper and George’s with the pen that he had somehow managed to steal from him.

“What now?” Paul asked, breaking the silence.

“Well, you can begin by kissing me,” George said nonchalantly.

That made Paul jump and he had to cling onto George in order not to fall from the bed.

“Are you mad?” he shouted, letting go of George as soon as he regained his balance and moving away from him as much as he could without falling again.

He cast George an angry glance and that seemed to be too much for the younger lad who erupted in laughter.

“Oh, God! You should’ve seen your face!” he managed to say between two outbursts of laughter.

Paul elbowed him.

“I hate you.”

“I don’t care,” was the only answer he got.

He had to wait for some time before George regained enough composure to look at him without giggling. He was wheezing and Paul mildly wished his friend would choke or something. That would serve him right.

“Okay, I’m done,” George then said. “Come back.”

“No.”

“It was a joke.”

“Still.”

“You don’t want to fall.”

“What if I do?”

Every remnant of laughter left George’s face. He suddenly looked very grave and Paul observed him curiously.

“Please, Paul,” he said after a while. “I need you to come closer.”

His voice strained at the end of the sentence. Paul could feel it as if it was himself. It looked like it was important. Still, he couldn’t help but ask:

“But you’re not queer, right?”

George’s brows furrowed.

“No, I’m not. It’s not about being queer or not. I just need you to come closer so move your damn arse before you end on the floor.”

That did the trick and Paul took back his place next to him. Shoulder against shoulder, thighs brushing, knees inches apart. The two of them, squeezed in the tiny bed as if they were deadly cold and seeking warmth.

“Ta,” George said, immediately relaxing.

He smiled and closed his eyes, resting his head on the wall behind him.

Paul would never admit it, but it felt nice. It had been quite some time since he’d been huddled against a friendly presence. When he was with a girl, the sex, properly speaking, was all they had time for. He shared hugs with his mates (mostly with John) sometimes, but they never lasted long enough. And he had been away from home for two months now. How exactly were his Da’s hugs? And the ones he gave to Mike? Not to think about his Mom’s.

“What’s all this about, then?” he asked George, trying to distract himself from his thoughts. “Why do you need me up here if it’s not about you being queer?”

“You …” George began.

“Spit it out, lad,” Paul said, but he couldn’t have expected what came just then.

“You smell like home, is all,” George blurted out.

“What?”

“You smell like home,” George repeated, more calmly this time.

“You didn’t need all this scheme just to tell me I need a bath. I know I stink. There’s just no way I’m gonna shower in that restroom tonight. Too gross. I’ll wait till I’m desperate,” Paul answered half-jokingly.

They all stank. What was George’s point?

“I’m not making fun of you,’ said his friend whose eyes were still closed. “The way you smell … It reminds me of Liverpool.”

Paul sent the other a quizzical look that was lost to him. He brought his arm up under his nose. But it was just plain old Paul with a substantial amount of sweat.

“There’s no way sniffing me makes you feel better.”

“You don’t … smell exactly like home,” George admitted. “There are other smells mixed with it. Still, you know … there’s the smell of your guitar chords, of leather, of that soap you carry around like you couldn’t live without it … even the sweat … All these are just the same as they were back home. And I miss home.”

“Come here, then,” Paul said, putting his left arm around George’s shoulders and dragging him even closer.

The lad opened his eyes and looked up at him, surprise written on his face.

“Isn’t that too queer for you?” he quipped.

“Shut up. You’re like a brother to me. Brothers do that.”

Paul could feel him smile against his chest as he went limp against him.

They stayed in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the noises coming from the cinema not far from there.

“I still have to write that letter,” Paul remembered with a sigh. He took back his arm reluctantly (because how was he supposed to write if he didn’t have the words nor his hand?)

“Maybe I can help you with that,” George offered as he rested his head on Paul’s shoulder, unbothered.

“You’d do that?”

“Sure. What do you want to tell them?”

“That I’m fine. That I … miss …” he inhaled sharply and forgot about what he was trying to say. “Oh.”

He turned his head so that his face was nearer to George’s mop of hair and took a deep breath. Flashes passed before his eyes. George’s hair was sweaty, yeah. But there were other things too: bustling Liverpool streets, the smile of George’s mum as she sat in the kitchen and drank a cup of tea, whole afternoons at his own Da’s as they tried to come up with new chords. Thousands of memories that made his heart sink and comforted him at the same time. Plenty of things may have changed, they may be far from home, but George, as much as he had changed himself, was still there to remind him where he came from. In that moment Paul caught himself wishing that’d never change.

“Paul?” George asked, making him come back to earth.

“I still don’t understand why you think _I_ smell like home,” he smiled.

“You’re still at it? I told you …” George began, but Paul didn’t let him finish.

“But I think that when we’re together, we smell like home.”

This earned him a smile and the best letter he ever wrote.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it!
> 
> Also, I don't know where to ask but I need a beta because I'm a mess. If anyone's interested please tell me! I'm writing a Starrison multi-chapter fic and I know there are mistakes I can't fix.


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